


I Wish I Was a Fixer

by HallsofStone2941



Series: Crazy Life [7]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholic!Thorin, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brief swearing, Family Reunions, He's really scary when he glares, Mentions of past abuse, Multi, Not Beta Read, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Thorin to the rescue, Threats of Violence, and he's got anger issues, fem!Bilbo, ptsd!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2023965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being with the therapists had, at least, forced her to consider her emotions, even if she had never voiced them. So she tells Balin, or Dwalin (the poor man), in stilted sentences punctured by sobs and shaky breaths, how much she had trusted Azog. She works through her jumbled thoughts, recognizing her naivety and her disillusionment, the way that the idea of Azog enchanted her so much that she was blinded by his true nature, the suspicious actions and  traveling he did meaning nothing in the face of her adoration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wish I Was a Fixer

**Author's Note:**

> Just one more after this and then we're done!

Recovery is a slow process for Belle. For nearly two years, she can barely take care of herself. Balin and Dwalin reassert their roles as her caretakers, treating her like she is once again eight years old. They switch off their days at work; Dwalin shuts the tattoo parlor down to three days a week, and Balin works out an arrangement with his boss to receive full pay for working at home half the time. Being a vital part of a company certainly has its benefits.

After months of doing nothing but sitting on the bed or the couch and staring at the walls – months of nightmares that wake her poor brothers up – Belle tries to see a therapist. But she cannot talk about it – not to this strange man (or the woman after him), who knows nothing about her: her life, her emotions. These people who are paid because she has problems; they have not been there during the most important times in her life, the times that build trust and respect. She does not respect them, and therefore she does not trust them.

She respects and trusts her brothers, though. Being with the therapists had, at least, forced her to consider her emotions, even if she had never voiced them. So she tells Balin, or Dwalin (the poor man), in stilted sentences punctured by sobs and shaky breaths, how much she had trusted Azog. She works through her jumbled thoughts, recognizing her naivety and her disillusionment, the way that the _idea_ of Azog enchanted her so much that she was blinded by his true nature, the suspicious actions and traveling he did meaning nothing in the face of her adoration.

Her brothers sit and listen, awkwardly. Balin is better with his words, though even he does not know what to say – few people do. Dwalin is more content to wrap his arms around her and hold tight, trying to protect her from the turmoil in her heart and mind. They point out that even they had been disillusioned by his kindness, after their initial suspicion had worn off. And now, they remind her, he is behind bars for the rest of his life, with no chance of parole.

Eventually she starts leaving the house, running little errands, usually with Dwalin accompanying her. The next step is working, again – that little library she once spent so much time in. It is only for a couple of hours a day, and either Balin or Dwalin walks her to and from the building, always long before dark.

A stroke of luck has the house next to theirs go on sale, very cheap, and Balin and Dwalin pool their resources, and a loan from the bank, together to buy it for her. The move is slow, and she starts out by spending the nights with her brothers and the days in her new home. Gradually, though, she carves out a space in her house, filling each nook and cranny with her own personality, which is tentatively making a comeback.

She is not sure where the idea to volunteer at the soup kitchen comes from. Balin and Dwalin are hesitant at first, as is she. A soup kitchen is ripe for trouble, filled with people that have lost a good deal of humanity in order to survive. But the urge persists, and she decides the day hours are safe enough. So she spends her weekends and weekday mornings at the kitchen, and works in the library from noon to closing time, at five.

She never had a lot of friends, before college, and the ones she made there were best forgotten. One woman that works at the library is kind, and they sometimes have lunch together before going to work.

To Belle's delight, Ori Olson, her middle school English teacher, stops at the library occasionally, and always seems to have time to talk to her. He is a great listener, soft and sympathetic, without giving her that pitying look that so many people do.

He recalls her love of learning, and asks if she will still pursue her interest in teaching. Maybe someday, she tells him. 

As the months turn to years, she feels her self become stronger. Some days she feels normal, like the happy woman that went off to college, if a little more serene, reserved. Some days she is angry – angry can be good, her therapist had told her – and wants nothing more than to go to the prison and punch Azog in his stupid face. Those urges barely last longer than a second, before she remembers the fear and utter helplessness she had felt when she was with him; that she had felt when he threatened and beat her.

Sometimes she regresses, waking up from a dreadful nightmare and unable to move for the rest of the day. She is never alone, though. Balin or Dwalin, or sometimes both of them, always appears to comfort her. Actually, they have a suspiciously uncanny ability to know when she is upset and needs them, and she suspects they have some sort of surveillance on her, though she can never find anything.

When the dark-haired man comes through the soup kitchen, three years after her time through hell with Azog, the only notice she takes of him is that she has never seen him before, and that his clothes and hair suggest he has been on the road for a long time.

She leaves the soup kitchen in the early afternoon that day, in broad daylight, and finds herself cornered in a side alley. She does not register what the large, bulky, leather-wearing man says; she is fighting hard not to pass out, the memories of  _that night_ flooding her brain. Darkness, sweat, stale beer, bodies, writhing bodies, too many bodies, she can't breathe, it's too hot, she needs to get _out_ , but Dwalin's gift is gone, she can't call for help,  _help_ , HELP!

“Didja hear me, little rabbit? Bolg's comin' for ya. He's pissed – fuckin' pissed, you'd better believe it – that his brother's dead, and he's comin' for ya, gunna make you _pay_.” The thug advances on her, towering over her, blocking out the sunlight. One tiny part of her brain registers his words – _Azog, dead? How?_ It did not seem possible. But the rest of her brain is focused on the man leering down at her, on her breath coming too short, too fast, through her mouth, chest moving rapidly, _like a little bunny_ , Azog's voice croons in her head. She tries to move back, but there is nowhere to go, the brick wall behind her an unyielding barrier.

“Hey!” A gruff voice comes from the alleyway entrance, but Belle cannot see anyone around the hulking man in front of her. It is not Dwalin's voice, but there is a similarity in its gruffness and pitch.

The thug turns around, glaring at whoever interrupted. “Wha'd'ya want, bum?” He growls.

From her position, Belle can only see a tall, thin figure with long, dark hair hiding its – his – face.

“You're on my turf,” the man growls, teeth bared like a wolf's behind the curtain of his mane. Her attacker walks up to the man, seeming surprised when the other one looks _down_ at him, and sneers. 

“Wha'd'ya gunna do about it, bum?” The homeless man leans forward, right in the thug's face. His snarl becomes more pronounced, nostrils flared, and intense blue eyes appear from behind his tresses, boring a hole through the man. The thug take a step back, unconsciously, then turns his head to look at Belle over his shoulder.

“Don't forget, little rabbit,” he threatens, before cautiously maneuvering himself around the dark-haired man and turning swiftly around the corner of the alley.

Belle's eyes are wide as she stares, frightened, at the homeless man. She knows this is not his turf – knows that the kind (but slightly crazy) cart-pusher that stays here will be in the park sharing Twinkies with the pigeons right now. Her only escape is blocked.

But the man's shoulders, which had been positioned to make himself look bigger, fall back to a more normal posture, the lips that had curled over his teeth close into a frown, and his eyes, though still fairly intense, no longer look like blue laser-fire. He holds his hands out to his sides, palms up, and his head dips and tilts to the side to make him look shorter.

“Are you alright?” He asks in a low voice roughened by travel. Belle blinks several times, never taking her eyes off of him. Her mouth is still slightly open, so she closes it, then opens it again to answer him. No sound comes out, and the man's expression becomes concerned; he carefully takes a step toward her, then another, then another, until he stands in front of her, hands still held out to the side. “Ma'am?”

She flinches at hearing his voice so close to her, but when she turns her head to meet his eyes, which seem to have dulled in the few feet he walked, and now appear bloodshot, she sees only kindness in them. She nods, taking a deep, shaky breath.

“I'm good, I'm fine. Thank you,” she tells him, looking at his chest (which is eye-level, for her). The man lets his hands fall to his sides, and he backs up a pace to give her some room, as if he is just realizing such close proximity is not considered appropriate. Remembering, perhaps – Belle knows that basic etiquette is sometimes forgotten on the streets.

“Would you...” the man hesitates, frowning at the ground, as if he is uncertain. “Would you...like me to walk you home? Or just,” he says quickly, backtracking, “wait with you while you call someone, until they come and get you? Just in case he,” a quick jerk of the head to the alley entrance, “comes back?”

His tone is sincere, concerned, and Belle shivers at the thought of the thug returning to threaten her again.

“My home isn't that far away,” she says, making the decision quickly and praying to whatever god exists that it is not the wrong one. “Come on, maybe I can find something a little more satisfying to eat for you.” She walks towards the alley entrance, stopping before she reaches the sidewalk and turning back to look at him. He shuffles slowly toward her, uncertain of going to her house or wary of frightening her again, she is not sure.

They walk slowly, Belle's eyes darting toward every side street and corner nervously while the man follows behind. Despite not knowing the man, she feels safe knowing that he is behind her – at least, safer than she would feel if she were walking alone.

Belle takes him to Balin and Dwalin's house, partially because she knows there will be something delicious in the fridge, and partially because she does not trust this man enough to take her to her own home. Sure enough, Dwalin has the remains of a pot pie sitting on the middle shelf, and she grabs it and heats it up for her guest.

He is looking around the living room, acting as if he is afraid to touch anything. Belle pulls a wooden bar stool up to the kitchen counter and gestures for him to sit, grabbing some milk, which the soup kitchen never offers, and putting it in a glass. He still does not look like he wants to touch anything, so she suggests he washes his hands in the sink. She very purposefully does not look at the near-black water swirling down the drain, instead offering a towel to him and separating the pie onto two plates, giving the likely-starving man the bigger half.

“Be careful – it's hot. And rich,” she warns him, blowing on her own bite as he sits down.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, reaching for the milk before touching his food. When he does eat, though, a small moan of content exits before he can contain it.

“This is really good,” he says, staring at the food in amazement. “Did you make it?”

“No, my brother did. He's the chef of the family. This is actually his house.”

“Will he mind—?” he asks, gesturing to himself.

“No. At least, if he does, I'll dunk him.” At her guest's questioning gaze, she elaborates. “When either of my brothers does something stupid – which happens a lot, believe me – I dunk their heads in water. They don't like it because their beards get all frizzy.” She smiles, remembering one particularly humid day – Dwalin had _not_ been happy. She is interrupted from her memory by her guest's quiet chuckle, a sound that warms her heart.

When they have finished, her guest stands and helps put the dishes in the sink. Before he can grab his jacket from the back of his stool, Belle clears her throat, nervous.

“You know, if you'd like, before you go, you can,” she clears her throat again, questioning her intelligence, “you can use the shower. Clean up, maybe. And the bed – there's a spare in the house that you can sleep in. If you want. As a thank you. My brothers – they won't have a problem once I've talked to them. Hell, they'll probably want to call you family for what you did today.” She chuckles, thinking of her brothers' sometimes overbearing protectiveness. She loves them.

Her guest is quiet, standing there with one hand on his jacket and staring at her. She half expects him to refuse, to claim that he does not take charity – many do, the homeless people. All they have left is their pride, even if it does not keep them fed. But then his head drops, dark, knotted tresses falling forward to hide his face. Even after all the people she has met while working at the soup kitchen, he seems the saddest, the most...hopeless.

“That—I would appreciate that very much, thank you,” he says. She shows him the bathroom and gives him a towel, stepping into her old room to make sure it is ready to host a guest, then moves to the kitchen to clean up the remains of lunch.

Dwalin's car pulls up, and her massive brother ducks into the back seat to come out with both arms laden with plastic bags. She opens the door for him with soapy fingers, making him jump, before returning to her task.

“What are you—” Dwalin's voice cuts off as he spies the jacket, slightly torn and dirty but still in good shape, on the bar stool. “Who?”

“He's someone from the soup kitchen, Dwalin,” she says gently, drying her hands on the towel. Dwalin's expression holds confusion and disbelief.

“Belle,” he says, tone trying to remind her of the consequences that can come with _bringing strangers home_. “What are you thinking?”

“He saved me, Dwalin.” At her brother's startled expression, she continues. “I was cornered – one of Bolg's men, he said—”

“What?” Dwalin's voice is deadly quiet, grey eyes staring intensely at her. She pales, remembering the frightening scene.

“One of Bolg's men found me. He cornered me – said that Azog is dead, that Bolg blames me. He's coming after me.” She meets his eyes, fearful. “He's coming after me, Dwalin, he's going to kill me! I know he is!”

“Shhhh,” Dwalin says, walking forward to wrap his bulky arms around her, chin resting on top of her head.

“It's alright, Bells, it's okay. He's in jail, he can't hurt you, he won't ever hurt you again. I promise.” They stand there for a long time, Belle resting her forehead against Dwalin's chest and forcing her breathing to even out. Eventually she steps back and looks up at him, staying close enough that his forearms still rest against her back.

“Now,” he says, “what about this guest of yours?”

She breathes carefully, testing her emotions. “He ran the man off. Just glared at him, all scary-like. Then he offered to stay with me until I could get someone to come and find me.” She shrugs. “I figured the walk wasn't too far, and he'd helped me when he didn't have to. So I brought him here and fed him. He's in the shower, now, and I said he could take my room for the night.” Dwalin stares at her, a mixture of concern, surprise, and fondness crossing his features. Then he sighs.

“Alright, Belle, fine. But if he transmits some sort of terminal illness, he's out. Got it?” She nods, and he goes to the fridge.

“You fed him the pie? Dammit, I was looking forward to that.”

“Sorry,” she bites her lip, looking apologetic.

“Forgiven, but you're helping me with the bouillabaisse,” he says.

“Yessir.”

They work together, Belle ducking under Dwalin while he hauls pots, pans, and food over her head. They have had years of cooking together in that kitchen, and dance carefully around each other, preparing the ingredients in half the time it would normally take. Dwalin texts Balin to come home with the items that he forgot. Several minutes later, Belle sees Thorin standing at the entrance to the living room, and she beckons him over.

“Dwalin, this is the man I was telling you about...oh, I never asked your name!” Belle realizes, appalled at her bad manners. She misses how Dwalin's eyes have latched onto the homeless man, entire body halting all movement.

“Thorin?” Dwalin sounds incredulous, and Belle looks between the two. Thorin? _The_ Thorin? As in Dwalin's _cousin_ , Thorin?

The man is staring at Dwalin, eyes alarmed and brow creased. There is no recognition on his face. In fact, he looks as if he is going to bolt any second. The silence is deafening, broken only by the sound of the door opening.

Balin enters the house, holding up a bag of groceries. “I got the things you asked...for.” Balin looks at the homeless man, then Dwalin, then Belle, then the homeless man again, who now meets his gaze.

“Balin?” His voice is even rougher than usual, almost lacking in pitch entirely. Balin blinks.

“Thorin?”

Belle glances between the three...cousins. She knows the story of Thorin Durin, at least up until the point where he had disappeared, nineteen years ago, and has not been heard from since. Balin and Dwalin had presumed him dead.

Suddenly, it is all too much. She is still reeling from her altercation with Bolg's man, and this new information threatens to overwhelm her.

“I can't,” she says, hands flying up in the air. She sets a hand briefly on Dwalin's crossed arms and walks toward the door, waiting for Balin to step aside before following the path to her home. She hears Thorin say, “I should go”, and Dwalin's growled, “you're not moving anywhere, yet”.

Inside, she sits on her couch and clasps her hands in between her knees, staring at the pattern on the coffee table and attempting to reconcile the events of the day. Minutes pass – or maybe hours, she is not sure – and the door opens. Balin comes in, and arm winding its way around her shoulders. Dwalin, apparently, had already given him a run-down of Belle's day, and Balin says nothing more than, “we'll look into it,” before rocking her gently until she falls asleep.

*****

Thorin is gone from her brothers' house by the time she awakens, though they both assure her that he stayed the night. Dwalin is browsing the internet, looking for phone numbers, and by noon he is dialing the phone.

Belle “meets” Gloin and his brother, wife, and son that day. They also receive a call from Dain, but by then Belle is too drained, still too upset from the previous day, to speak to him. Balin takes her to the police station, where she describes the man that threatened her. They inform her that, yes, Azog is dead, and that Bolg has no chance of getting out of jail, even with outside help, but that they will ensure that all security protocols are being followed. It does not sound like much, but Belle sleeps better that night than she did the previous one.

She is surprised to see Thorin again, at the soup kitchen, though they do not talk to each other. She thought he was a bit of a drifter, but perhaps finding his family has given him a reason to stick around. He only appears about once a week, and sometimes is gone for weeks on end, but she finds the courage to go up to him, one day after shift, and sit with him. She tells him small things – what Balin and Dwalin have told her about Arkenstone (though she speaks cautiously to avoid anything that might anger him), and a few things about her life with the brothers. This happens every time he comes, and eventually they start taking walks together, or sitting in the kitchen at home (hers or Dwalin's, depending on the day).

She does not tell him that she was homeless for a while – not at first – because she does not think he will appreciate it. Instead she listens, hearing his story between the words of his tales of life on the road, recognizing the helplessness and self-loathing in him that she once felt for herself, when she lived with Azog. She talks to Thorin about that time in her life; she feels as if he can understand, if not the situation, then at least the emotions tied to it. He is a good listener, kind and patient, and she tries to give him the same. He drinks too much, she can tell, and it makes her nervous. She never says anything when he seems hung over – or still drunk – but he does not yell at her, ever, for which she is grateful.

When she first talks to Dis, she thinks about Thorin, currently off on one of his travels. The man seems to have a hard time staying in one place – not surprising, given the past twenty-one years. She introduces herself to Thorin's sister, giving her a brief explanation of how she knows Dwalin (which receives the typical “oh, I'm sorry to hear that”), and describing her current occupation (work at the library and volunteering at the soup kitchen). About Dis, she learns very little. The woman sounds kind, but also tired and sad, as if something fundamental is missing from her life.

When Belle tells this to Thorin, as well as the truth about her own childhood, she is not expecting his response. In the space of a few seconds, all trust she had had in him disappears as he towers over her, eyes flashing that dangerous blue, much as he towered over the thug in the alley when they first met. She is left, trembling, when Dwalin, looking like an enraged bear, drags Thorin out by his collar.

She should not have cowered, but stayed standing and spoken with Thorin gently, reasonably. She should have withstood the storm and provided comfort for the pain he was obviously feeling. But she cannot. Not anymore, not like she could have before she met Azog _._

At least Dwalin knows how to take care of her. As selfish as it may be, she is glad no one else gets to see this side of him. It means that she matters to him.

*****

A few weeks after Thorin disappears, the police call Balin. Bolg had attempted to escape his prison cell, and had been shot dead. Something eases in Belle's chest, something that started the year she moved in with Azog and never fully left. She feels as light as a feather when she hears the news. Stronger, and more confident.

When Thorin finally comes back, apologizing, she accepts it. She is still fragile, sometimes, after a rare nightmare or bad day, but there is not the constant fear of a pale blond lurking around every corner, waiting for her to walk into his trap. She focuses on Thorin, on helping him, and feels herself healing, too. He still gets angry, sometimes, and stomps over to Dwalin's to throw some punches. But he is not drinking, he acts healthier, and looks healthier (especially after a haircut). The trees of the forest are thinning, the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter – which cliche is it that Ori never let her use? Ah, yes, there it is: they are on the right track.

**Author's Note:**

> RA said in an interview that he learned how to make himself less intimidating by speaking quietly and hunching his shoulders so that he doesn't look so tall and broad - I made Thorin like this when he saves Belle.
> 
> I probably could have made the whole soundtrack by Kelly Clarkson, but I had to add some variety:  
> 1) Because of You by Kelly Clarkson  
> 2) Behind These Hazel Eyes by Kelly Clarkson  
> 3) Frank D. Fixer by Jason Mraz  
> 4) Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson  
> 5) Count on Me by Bruno Mars


End file.
